


one day (we'll get this right)

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Future Fic, Jack and Bitty love each other and didn't want to break up, Jack is the Schooners AGM, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Older Zimbits, Reuniting, Self-Conscious Jack, confident Bitty, dadbod!jack, divorcee bitty, retired jack, which makes it super easy to fall back into bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-02-29 20:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18785458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Fifteen years ago, Jack was traded to Winnipeg for a first round draft pick; a move that cost him far more than the 'A' on his sweater when the distance proved too much for his partner to handle.Now, Jack is two years into his new job as the Schooner's Assistant General Manager when a chance encounter offers Jack an opportunity to rebuild the life he was always meant to have with Eric Bittle.Prompt: Jack and Bitty were never quite able to make a relationship work. They reconnect in their 40s.





	1. Chapter 1

Jack is digging a handful of dried strawberries out of a paper sack when he gets the distinct and terrible feeling he’s being watched.

The sensation isn’t an uncommon one, he’s been in Washington for almost two years now, playing Assistant General Manager to Seattle’s rebounding hockey franchise. People are starting to recognize him, but he’s not on billboards anymore. He isn’t the face of a franchise; just another front office suit.

Regardless, Jack doesn’t feel much like taking any photos today. He’s looking for some peace and quiet. An indulgent snack. Maybe some flowers for the living room, just because. He doesn’t have much need for judgement anymore, and he’s outlasted anyone he might have needed to impress.

The feeling lingers, and Jack turns away from the stalls, moving down the stairs to the mostly abandoned lower level. The smaller shops are already locking up for the night, and Jack thinks he can make a clean escape, maybe grab a cup of coffee from one of the half dozen Starbucks between the market and his condo, maybe turn in early.

There are people milling about and quick footsteps behind him, but Jack pays no mind. This is a tourist hub as much as a local market. He’s one of many.

“Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack slows to a stop, wincing, hating everything and everyone as he plasters on a fake smile to face whatever is coming next. Fuck. He’d just wanted to go home. He just wanted dinner. Jack adjusts the tote on his arm, and turns to find a familiar face offering a cautious smile.

“Tell me, just how much protein do you think is in those crack-berries?” Eric Bittle teases, brushing a fringe of grey-blonde hair behind his ear, flushing like he’s embarassed by his own question. “Like, zero grams? Possibly a negative number?”

“Bittle?” Jack breathes, taking in his former partner, a man he hasn’t seen properly in nearly a decade before dropping his tote and wrapping him in a hug that may not be wanted, a thought that only comes to him after Eric is tucked tightly against his chest, clutching back hard. “Eric!” Jack laughs against Bittle’s hair, barely able to keep himself from pressing his lips to his ex’s scalp. “What are — what are you doing here?”

“I saw you upstairs!” Eric laughs pulling back and giving Jack an appreciative once-over. “I was just down the way by the fish trying to get your attention — didn’t know it was you for a second!”

Jack reflexively looks down at his outfit, an old cardigan and a pair of threadbare jeans, his comfort clothes, and he immensely regrets changing out of his suit; especially so in light of Eric’s polished appearance and smart leather jacket. He looks amazing; just as handsome as Jack remembers.

“Yeah, wasn’t expecting to see anyone,” Jack brushes off a crumb from his earlier stop atPiroshky Piroshky, only the slightest bit mortified.

“What? No! You look amazing! I’ve just somehow never seen you in a sweater? Or glasses?” Eric reaches up and lightly taps the frames perched on Jack’s nose. “I had to follow you to be sure, didn’t want to be stalking some random hot guy at the market!”

Jack feels the heat rise in his cheeks. Eric was always hyperbolic, but he never offered a compliment he didn’t mean.

“You look, uh, great,” Jack stumbles, recovering his groceries from his feet, trying not to stare too hard at Eric’s hands looking for a wedding band. “How have you been? I think I knew you were in Seattle, but I wasn’t sure after everything that happened with, um, well.”

Eric waves dismissively like he can simply brush the awkwardness away before looping his arm through Jack’s and guiding him toward nowhere. Jack has zero idea where they’re going, and, honestly, he feels like this may be a hallucination. Maybe a bad pastry. Maybe he’s dead — the odds of Eric being right here, right now, are improbable; god knows how many times Jack’s imagined a moment like this. Running into Eric unprompted, having a chance to talk without the weight of Jack’s career or Eric’s marriage hanging over them.

“So, you remember Peter?” Eric starts softly, slowing his gait, clutching at Jack’s like they’re walking together again along the Providence River and not sidestepping tourists in the bowels of Pike Place Market.

“Your . . .?”

“My husband, yes. Well, ex-husband. It was a whole thing: he moved us out here for work, and then decided he’d been secretly in love with his assistant for a decade. Long story short, we separated. Now, I have a great job and a condo overlooking the Sound. The rest is history not worth revisiting.”

Jack swallows, trying to figure out if Eric just admitted he’s single.

“You’re not seeing anyone?”

“Lord, no,” Eric laughs, a bright, airy sound that thrusts Jack back into 2015. “No. I’m not dating at the moment.What about you, Mister Assistant GM? Anything of note you’d like to share?”

“Dinner?” Jack proposes instead of answering, afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he waits any longer. “We could talk more over dinner, if you like. If you have time. Or drinks? Do you drink?”

Eric’s smile turns fond at Jack’s fumbling.

“Tonight? You know, we’ve only been in spitting distance of each other for almost three years now,” Eric strokes Jack’s arm, the gesture both overfamiliar and somehow not familiar enough. “Dinner, at the very least, is definitely overdue.”

 

* * *

 

 They make it to a hole in the wall Vietnamese place with a _‘B-’_ rating on the door whose staff won’t judge Jack anywhere near as harshly as Jack’s currently judging himself.

“I could demolish some Pho,” Eric teases over the top of his menu, over pronouncing the word like he’s been corrected publicly before. “Do you come here a lot? I walk by all the time but I’ve never stopped in. It’s nice.”

It isn’t _that_ nice, but it’s close to Jack’s building, consistent, and it’s open late enough he can grab dinner after rough games that slip into overtime. He doesn't need to mention the staff knows him well enough that the waitress did a near double-take when Jack asked for a table for two.

“Oh, yeah, I live just over there,” Jack points over his shoulder at a high-rise a block down, startling at the excited gasp that comes from Eric.

“What are the odds? Jack, I literally live two blocks north of you. Have we been this close the whole time? Unbelievable!”

“Pretty amazing,” Jack agrees, shifting his focus to his menu as if a picture of clay pot chicken will calm his nerves. "Almost impossible."

The small talk over dinner alternates between useless information and work gossip, both of them skirting the old hurt they’re both pretending didn’t ruin them. Or, at least, Jack hopes he isn’t the only one still carrying that smothered torch. Finally, though, they can’t avoid it anymore.

“I hate how ‘break-up’ implies either of us wanted things to end,” Eric pokes at a bit of basil with his chopsticks. “I didn’t want to stay any more than you wanted to go.”

“That first year in Winnipeg was so hard,” Jack admits, not for the first time aloud, but definitely the first time he’s said it to Eric. “I was angry. Atmyself, at the Falcs, if I could go back and do it over . . . ”

There were so many casualties from that trade. Jack lost the Falcs, lost his trust in Georgia Martin and the friendship that came with it, for a good while he lost his love for the sport as well. Winnipeg was kind to him, but the team could never replace what he’d built with the Falcs.

Only years removed from the trade can Jack admit that no number of playoff appearances would ever be worth losing Eric.

“Don’t say that,” Eric counters softly. “Heck, I’d still be baking commercial grade pies at some restaurant if I hadn’t finished my degree. We were better for it.” His tone leaves a lot of room for interpretation, more than a few cracks for Jack to see regret seeping in. “You wouldn’t be where you are today if things had gone our way.”

“No, if things had gone my way, we’d be married and I’d be retired in Rhode Island,” Jack mutters, as usual without thinking, and Eric flinches like he’s been struck. A perfectly decent evening Jack had to ruin with his big mouth; talking candidly with Eric like they’re still close when really there’s more than a decade of radio silence between them. “Shit, Eric, I’m sorry.”

“Do you mean that?” Eric asks, breaking the tension between them that has Jack ready to puke out his heart. “You would have _married_ me?”

“Yeah.” Jack swallows, figuring he might as well go all in. He already looks like a bum, dragging his hot ex to a casual restaurant when he deserves to be taken somewhere that at least requires a dinner jacket. He doesn’t deserve Eric. He never really did. “Before the trade. I was planning a whole trip, and, then I had to . . . everything fell apart so quickly.”

Jack wipes his face and moves for his wallet to dig out some cash; his usual waitress isn’t moving fast enough for Jack to make a quick escape from this conversation, but before he can do anything, Eric’s hand clamps around his wrist, holding him still.

There’s a familiar furrow between Eric’s brows, one that’s only become more prominent with age. “I’ve spent fifteen years thinking terrible things about you. Trying to remember if what we had meant anything real, for you to give up the way you did when it all went belly up, and now you’re sitting here telling me you were going to propose? Telling me that all this time, we could have been _together_?” Eric’s eyes are shining, his voice thick with an accent Jack had nearly forgotten. 

”I went to Madison, talked to your parents,” Jack admits softly, if only to savor the way the revelation plays out across Eric’s features. “Had a ring and everything.”

“And you just let me go?” Eric whispers, tears finally falling as he still refuses to release Jack’s wrist. “Why?”

”It felt like . . . Bitty, if you didn’t want to come with me of your own volition, I couldn’t bribe you with marriage,” Jack defends, fighting a familiar tightness in his throat as Eric scrubs away his tears.

“Fuck, that explains why Mama wouldn’t give you the time of day, doesn’t it? Jack, you put that money on the table and take me back to your place, because I’ve been missing you for a long time and I don’t want to miss you anymore.”

Whatever reaction Jack was expecting, this isn’t it. “Eric?”

“No, I’m serious,” Eric seems to realize what he’s said and panics, pushing his chair out to stand, still clasping Jack’s wrist like a vice “All the time I spent _‘moving on’_ and you’ve been right here, looking like this, still loving me? You still love me, right? After all this mess?” 

Jack nods. He doesn’t know what else to do. The desperation on Eric’s face shifts to hopeful determination.

“Then take me home, Sweetpea.”

 

* * *

 

Eric holds his hand tightly, like he’s afraid Jack is going to run off into the night the second he looks away; which, in fairness, Jack had considered.

“Are we doing this?” Jack asks as they wait for the elevator, under his breath so his concierge doesn’t hear. “We’re going to, uh,” Jack clears his throat and Eric shoots him a near manic smile before reaching back to pinch Jack’s still ample backside.

“Sugar, we have to make up so much lost time. I already called in to work tomorrow.”

“I can do that, too,” Jack nods, still unsure if this moment is happening; terrified he’ll blink and Eric will be gone again. Just like before. “We don’t have a game, so —”

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Jack waits for Eric to go in before following close behind. Jack presses 29, and the second the doors slip shut, Eric turns Jack to face him, and pulls him down into a cautious kiss, nose nudging Jack’s glasses out of place.

“Oops,” he giggles, sliding the frames up into Jack’s hair. “This is okay, isn’t it? I’m not taking liberties or moving too fast?”

Jack eases his grocery bag to the floor and takes Eric’s face in his hands, holding him still to drink in the fine lines, feel the light stubble, take in the visage of a man he’d loved so fiercely so long ago. He tries to speak, but words fail him. Instead, he leans forward, closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Eric’s, and takes a shaky breath. Jack wants to cry. Wants to curl up in bed, shake and tremble like he hasn’t in years. He wants a reason for Eric to comfort him; to hold him like he used to. 

“Me too, Sugar,” Eric whispers, as if nothing has changed between them. “Me too.”

The elevator doors open right into Jack’s condo, but there isn’t time for a tour, nor does Jack have any desire to show off the view the Schooners’ ownership group had bribed him with. There is only Jack and Eric.

Maybe, that’s all there needs to be.

They barely make it into the living room before Eric’s fingers are unbuttoning his cardigan, inching quickly to the shirt beneath.

“Wait, wait,” Jack tugs his shirttails back from Eric’s hands, ashamed for being ashamed, which is bullshit because he’s an adult; but he remembers what he used to look like. How Bitty — Eric — remembers him. Retirement has been kind to Jack, but he’s not the model of athleticism he used to be. It’s ridiculous, he doesn’t care when people see him shirtless literally anywhere else; but this is Eric.

His Bitty, who still looks amazing, fit, and clearly takes pride in his appearance. A handsome man, who remembers Jack as handsome, too.

“Hon?”

Jack blinks up from his feet, finds Eric watching him with understanding eyes, crows feet barely visible at the corners.

“I’m not in my 20s anymore,” Jack says. “And it’s hard to workout regularly with my knee.”

“Sweetpea, neither am I.” Eric laughs softly and wraps his arms around Jack’s middle, hugging his soft torso tightly. “Though, I did forget you’re a cyborg. You think I’m expecting rock hard abs? You’ve always been the most handsome man in the room, Jack. I’d love you even if I couldn’t get my arms around you. And guess what?” Jack feels a pressure against his spine; Eric's clasped hands bouncing to make their presence known. “Looks like you’ve got room to spare!”

A laugh bubbles up in Jack’s throat. “Guess I do.”

“Wanna know a secret?” Eric leans in, resting his chin on Jack’s chest to look up playfully. “You’re the only guy I ever dated that was anything close to a jock. I’ve got a real affinity for men with a little softness to ‘em.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Yes.” Eric smiles, pressing his face against Jack’s still firm pec. "Is it working?"

“Little bit,” Jack relents.

“It’s hard to cuddle with someone who’s cut from a block of marble,” Eric eases out of his hold on Jack and strips off his own shirt, revealing a flat, if undefined stomach. “Truth be told, I’ve been looking forward to this since I saw you again at the market. Never thought a man in a cardigan would get my engine going, but here we are. Looks like I’ve got a thing for Jack Zimmermann, no matter the incarnation.”

“I loved seeing you,” Jack admits. “Didn’t think we’d ever get to have this again.”

“I know, right?”

Eric’s cool fingers slip inside Jack’s shirt, arms wrapping back around his belly as Eric undoes the remaining buttons, revealing hair Jack’s long since stopped trying to tame, and skin mottled with small scars and faded stretch marks.

“I always wanted to see you like this,” Eric smiles tightly, eyes shining and damp as he runs his fingers along the soft edges of Jack’s body. “Always hoped we’d end up together, and now you’re here, with me.” Eric looks up again, teary. “Feels like a dream. Kinda scared I’m gonna wake up at home, alone.”

Jack doesn’t know how many nights he spent lying awake, imagining what could have been if Eric’s life had been a little faster, his own a little slower. How many years he’s regretted leaving this behind; and now, to know Eric’s felt the same way?

How much time they wasted — but it doesn’t matter now. Jack leans down, guides Eric into a kiss; in the back of his mind, trying to recreate that first blessed moment at Samwell where Jack came to his senses. Eric makes a delighted sound that doesn’t quite escape their joined mouths, and Jack laughs, slipping to the side to kiss away his Eric’s — _his Bitty’s_ — tears. Realizing a second too late that he’s crying as well.

“I love you,” Jack whispers happily. “I never stopped.”

“Good.” Eric smiles, sniffing. “Because I did, too. Now, what do you say we pull ourselves together and have fun like we used to? You know, before we kill the mood anymore than we already have.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Crisse,_ ” Jack winces as he climbs onto the bed, reminded of his bum knee for not the first time this evening. “Eric, I can’t really, uh, kneel.”

“Oh, right.” Eric pauses, briefs tugged half down his thighs, biting his lip as he stares down the long line of scarring on Jack’s left leg. “Well, I could ride you? Would that work?”

“Y-yes,” Jack swallows, hardening at the candidness. “That’d work. I think I have condoms in the drawer. And lube?”

Eric kicks off his underwear, his softer thighs shaking a touch as he gives Jack an unimpressed look, chirping, “What, your days of rimjobs and spit-lube are behind you?”

“Fucking hell, Bittle, I forgot how filthy you are,” Jack blurts. “ _Tabarnak_ — how much sex were we having that that was all we needed?”

“Too much.” Eric barks a laugh. “We were young, dumb, and full of, well, each other. Good times, though; and, Lord, just you wait, I’ve sowed my share of oats out here. The things I can do now will blow your mind.”

“And you still want me?” Jack’s insecurity is as reliable as the cresting tide. He can practically set a watch to it.

“Don’t get all self-conscious; I saw that parade of models you carted around after you got traded. You tellin’ me you weren’t having your fair share of fun?”

“Guess you’re right,” Jack falls back against the pillows, thinking. “Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. We have history, but we’re adults, and guess what? I can suck a dick better today than I could when I was 20. That’s a promise.”

“I would hope so,” Jack chirps absently, barely able to roll away from a retaliatory gut-punch. “Remember that time you bit me?”

“Shut your mouth, Zimmermann,” Eric growls, crawling across the bedspread to pin Jack and steal a kiss. “Big words coming from a man who lost a condom inside me.”

Holy fuck. That’s right. Jack had completely forgotten.

“Chirp retracted,” he apologizes. “Maybe it’s for the best we got some practice, eh?”

“Mmmhmm,” Eric eases onto Jack’s lap, mindful of his bad leg. “Older and wiser.”

“Older and hotter,” Jack grins, tugging at a lock of Eric’s hair. “You look so good, Bits.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome. Didn’t think it was possible for you to be more attractive, here you go graduating to a dad-bod and giving me all kinds of feelings I don’t know what to do with.”

“I think I have a few ideas,” Jack runs his hands along Eric’s back, tracing the divots of his spine, the dimples at the small of his back, guiding Eric into an open mouth kiss that’s more about reestablishing comfort than getting off.

The spend a happy few minutes making out at an easy, relaxed pace, neither feeling the need to hurry toward a finish line after so long apart. Eventually, Jack reaches down to slip two fingers inside his partner, offering a familiar pressure as they rock together; their flushed bodies, their thick cocks, pressed firm against one another, a sight both familiar and so very new.

 _“Jack,”_ Eric pants, rocking on Jack’s fingers before wrapping his fist around them both. “I can take more. You don’t need to be gentle.”

“But I want to be,” Jack breathes, even as he slides his ring finger in and earns a full body shiver for his trouble. “You deserve gentle.”

“Well, I want you to fuck me,” Eric orders, sliding forward to rub himself against the scrunched swell of Jack’s stomach. 

“We don’t have to,” Jack placates one last time, playing it safer than he wants to because given the choice, he’d be balls-deep already. “If it’s too much for one night, we can slow down.”

Eric reaches down and fists Jack’s dick, eyes blazing with more passion than Jack has seen in a long time. “Always a gentleman,” Eric chides, shimmying up onto his knees and loose of Jack’s fingers to press the head of Jack’s erection against his hole. “No need to worry about chivalry, Mister Zimmermann, I know what I like, I’m not afraid to ask for it anymore.”

Jack isn’t expecting Eric to sink down so easily — he still remembers those long, early nights where Eric could only handle a few centimeters at a time, and Jack’s full length had him squirming. He wonders how big Eric’s ex-husband was, or what Eric’s been up to these last few years.

(Doesn’t matter. Jack was first, and with any luck, he’ll be last.)

“Sweetpea,” Eric sighs, the old endearment getting Jack twitching so hard there’s no way Eric can’t feel it. “Missed this. Missed you.”

Eric sets an easy rhythm, sliding up and back down, hips jerking in tiny motions that make his cock bounce; it’s all Jack can do to grip his soft thighs and hold on tight, in awe of the man he’s rediscovered.

After a short while, Jack readjusts, earning a delighted sigh from Eric before he takes his own pleasure, snapping his hips into Bittle’s tight heat. “I’ve got you,” Jack gets an arm around Eric’s middle and holds tight, pulling him down into each thrust until he’s panting nonsense; then Jack realizes his partner is talking to him.

_“Please, more —”_

_“Missed you so much, Sugar —”_

_“You gonna marry me?”_

The last one causes Jack’s breath to catch in his throat. “I am,” Jack answers the question Eric probably doesn’t even realize he’d asked, snapping his hips up, feeling the desperate way Eric is clenched around him. “You want to be my husband, Bittle?” Jack urges, fingers playing at the tight skin stretched around Jack’s dick as Eric whines; breathy pants of _‘yes, yes’_ holding more weight than ever before.  “I’d marry you. I'd love you,” Jack breathes against Eric’s cheek. “ _So fucking much —_ ”

“Yes, yes, _ah_!” Eric rocks back, hand moving lightning fast over his straining cock, painting Jack’s stomach and chest hair with thick white.

That’s all it takes to send Jack over the edge, reeling from the sensation and the image of Eric’s pleasure-slack face. Theres a half beat where time slows between them, reality setting it, before Eric flops down on top on Jack, equally naked, though that fact doesn’t seem as pressing as it would have a decade-and-a-half ago.

“Hi,” Eric smiles, breathing heavily as he rests his chin on his hands, close enough to Jack’s face that he’s starting to blur a little.

Jack shuffles, reaching up to brush the fringe out Eric face. “Hi.”

“So, that was fun.”

“Did you ask me to marry you?” Jack asks. “No pressure, only wondering if I heard you right.”

“Guess I did. Does that scare you?” Eric hedges. “I know it’s fast, and I probably only said it because you were inside me, but . . . I really don’t want to lose you again. We could sign a prenup. Whatever you want,” Eric ducks his head, hiding his eyes. “This is stupid,” he mumbles, “it’s been a day. Not even. Maybe six hours? Why would you want to marry me after _six hours_?”

“Not stupid, Bits,” the nickname gets Eric’s attention, a glimmer of hope flashing across his features. “I always thought we’d end up together.”

“We can get a prenup,” Eric repeats, still thinking he needs to convince Jack this is something feasible. Jack guides Eric down into a kiss, nipping at his lips to coax him into silence.

“I don’t care if you take half my shit, Bittle,” Jack runs a hand along Eric’s bare hip. “Do you have any idea how much I’d have given up just _yesterday_ to have you back? You can have half right now if it means you’ll stay. I’ll grab my checkbook.”

“So romantic and dumb,” Eric praises, raining kisses over Jack’s cheeks. “I don’t need your money. I cleaned out Peter when he left. Bet my place is even nicer than yours.”

“It’s not."

“No, it isn’t.” Eric relents, drawing his fingers down Jack’s face. “You. That’s all I ever wanted. You, and the copper stand mixer you stole when you left for Winnipeg.”

“I donated it to Goodwill.” Jack lies, thinking about how he'd taken the thing out of spite, only to be unable to actually get rid of it. “Threw the matching accessories into a lake. It’ll never be complete.”

“Goddamn, I hate you,” Eric whispers, ducking his head against Jack’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “You didn’t really, right?”

“No, _Lapin_ ,” Jack presses a kiss behind Eric’s ear. “It’s still in the kitchen at the lake house.”

“Good. It deserved a happy ending.”

“We did, too,” Jack agrees, tapping Eric’s thigh, an old signal that it’s time to hit the showers. “Let’s get cleaned up. Watch a movie or something,” Jack tries to shimmy off the bed and finds his left leg won’t quite cooperate. It’s not a good look; to conclude their first time back together with a reminder Jack isn’t who he used to be. Though he tries to hide his discomfort, Eric doesn’t hesitate to offer a helping hand, sticking close as Jack limps toward the bathroom.

”Just a little tight,” Jack grunts, leaning against the sink. “It’ll pass.”

“It can’t be this easy, can it?” Eric posits from behind. “Us? Back together? Just like that?”

“I think it’ll be as easy as we want it to be,” Jack eases into the shower and settles onto the tile bench, massaging his thigh, not bothering to wait for the temperature to adjust since it’s preset. “There’s no one left to prove anything to. Nothing to hide. No contracts. You’re here and so am I, fuck it, right? ”

The bathroom lights are harsh, the mirrors unforgiving as the reflect back what the years have done to them both. Wrinkles and spots, dark body hair and grey head hair, soft bellies, and, in Jack’s case, a whole mess of surgery scars. They aren’t in their prime anymore.

Somehow, that makes it easier.

“C’mere, Bittle,” Jack pats the seat beside him, encouraging Eric to join him under the waterfall spray. “You said you wanted to marry a busted up old hockey player. This is what it’ll look like.”

“You aren’t busted up,” Eric chides, settling onto the bench and leaning into Jack’s side, wiping the sticky mess from his chest before tangling his fingers in the thick patch of hair between Jack’s pecs. “I love you,” Eric says again, for the untold time this evening. “I want to make this easy. Loving you should be easy.”

Jack wraps an arm around Eric’s shoulder and presses a kiss to his wet hair.

“Easy sounds good to me.”


	2. Coda: Eric, Before the Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as Eric stiffens, no pained glances are shot his way; in fact, no one at the table seems to register his discomfort at all. And why should they? He's nearly two decades removed from the 'kiss heard round the world'; since then the NHL has had players propose to each other on the ice; maybe they’d still matter if they had beaten the odds, but now that relationship defining moment has been swept away like old news. Not a love story.
> 
> Not even a story. Barely clickbait.

 

Eric hates that he knows so much about his ex's life. Hates that he never managed to delete the google alert for _'Jack Zimmermann + Injury_ ' or _'Jack Zimmermann + Retirement'_. Honestly, he can't fault Peter for running away to the Maldives with his twink assistant, Eric spent the entirety of their marriage with an ear to the door waiting on Jack to reappear with a truckload of roses and an apology.

It's taken years for Eric to accept Jack was never the man who needed to apologize; no, that was Eric's responsibility. One he ignored with a grace that would have made his grandmother proud, rest her soul.

Eric's been with his production company for a few years now, behind the camera for once, producing series pilots, commercials, even the occasional feature when they can drag something down from Vancouver. The work is fast paced with terrible hours, but the pay is amazing and the contract to contract basis means he can take off months at a time if he wants to. Which he does. Frequently.

Doesn't hurt matters that Peter broke the infidelity clause on their prenup and Eric walked away with from the marriage with a vacation home in Maui and an investment portfolio worth almost five million. (Only cost Eric ten years and the love of his life, but whatever, right? He's rich now. Kinda. Well, not really by Seattle standards.)

 _"Psst."_ Eric looks up and finds his production manager, Emily, waving from the doorway of his office. "I have gossip," she teases, slipping inside and quietly closing the door behind her. "Schooners are restructuring. Full management rebuild, new vendor contracts, the works. Rasheed says he's got an in with the new owner, we just need to put together a budget proposal for their GM. What do you think? Worth the time?"

Eric glances out his office window, as if he could see the arena through the morning cloud cover obscuring his view of the city.

"Schooners haven't scraped the playoffs since 2014," he says. "Attendance is meh, name recognition is good, but reputation isn't much. My guess is they'll throw as much cash at the marketing budget as they do the salary cap to turn things around. What the hell. Let's put accounting on it. Tell Rasheed we need tickets in the contract, too. Box or behind the bench, none of this ‘nosebleed’ nonsense."

"Maybe we'll finally have a decent team this year," Emily offers, leaving Eric to his business. "Or any year. Eventually.”

Eric raps his knuckles against his desk twice in agreement.

 

* * *

 

Eric is only half invested in the presentation; he's mostly there as moral support for the younger staff spearheading the project, given he's up to his neck in production delays out of Portland, but it's part of his job. And he loves his job.

" — We're meeting with the General Manager, Phillip Rowe, but I've got a source saying he's pretty much a figure head and the actual decisions are being are being made by the Assistant GM, this guy Jack Zimmermann. He'll be in charge in a few years once the rebuild is done. Allegedly."

Eric's ears are burning, but Zimmerman(n) is a common enough name. "Double back. _Zimmermann_ is who we need to work with? Do we have a photo of this guy?"

"Yeah, standby," Rasheed leans over his tablet, tapping away before a picture comes up on the wall. A publicity group shot of the young owner, a balding Rowe, and an older, softer, handsome, gorgeous, husky-eyed Jack Laurent Zimmermann.

Even as Eric stiffens, no pained glances are shot his way; in fact, no one at the table seems to register his discomfort at all. And why should they? He's nearly two decades removed from the _'kiss heard round the world'_ ; since then the NHL has had players _propose_ to each other on the ice; maybe they’d still matter if they had beaten the odds, but now that relationship defining moment has been swept away like old news. Not a love story.

Not even a _story_. Barely clickbait.

"Y'all, I've got another call," Eric apologizes, gathering his things to retreat to the safety of his office. "You're clear to move forward with the Schooners, just blind-copy me in on anything important."

 

* * *

 

There’s a spot of blood on Eric’s arm. A thin streak where he’s been picking again. Outside, the wind has abated, allowing the snow to fall gently enough that Eric can track the motions of individual flakes. If he squints, he can barely make out the Space Needle.

"One day, I'll be able to schedule a session without you knowing exactly what we'll be discussing. That's my hope. That's therapy."

"Eric, we can discuss anything you like. This is your time. If you want to talk about Peter, or snails, or pastries. I'm here for you."

"But he's _all_ we talk about. All _I_ talk about. I still just hate him so much and I can't help thinking what my life could have been.“

"He really isn't, but I understand it can seem like he's present in a lot of our discussions."

"Lately I've been so caught up in this headspace that I tanked my entire life when I didn't go to Winnipeg," Eric catches himself. It's been years. He'll be 40 in a few short months. "I was married to Peter longer than Jack and I even knew each other," Eric finishes. "I can't keep tying everything back to one decision I made in my 20s."

Sharon's expression is one of familiar sympathy. They've tread this path many times. Eric thinks she must be sick to death of it by now, the thousands of dollars he's spent paying her to listen while he vents about his exes.

"What's bringing this up now?" She asks. "You haven't mentioned Jack in some time."

"Everything. Peter's mother keeps calling mama like we aren't estranged, then there's this nonsense," Eric fumbles for his phone and taps the glass until he finds the Schooners' WeShare page, showing her the article that had stolen Eric's breath only a few hours earlier.

"He's in Seattle." Eric scrolls down to the photo of the handsome, greying man he'd once considered his soulmate. "Assistant GM of the Schooners. Of all the bars, right?"

"What do you plan to do with this information? Reach out? Reconnect?"

"Lord no. Could you imagine? _Hi Jack, remember the college sweetheart you abandoned to chase superstardom?_ No, thank you, I'm not that much of a masochist."

"You think he wouldn't want to see you?"

"Why would he? I know I had my reasons, but," Eric slumps back into his seat and looks out at the grey sky. "I broke his heart over something he had no control over. I mean, what was he going to do? Quit hockey? Bail on a multi-million dollar contract? Past-me was an idiot -- my lord the legal fees alone for something like that? All I had to do was transfer my graduate program and spend the rest of my days content to fuck around with my rich, hot best-friend. Instead, I gave him an impossible ultimatum."

A light flashes on Sharon's phone, signaling the end of the session.

"Then I met my husband, and now I'm here, alone, talking to you," Eric sighs, wrapping things up. "To answer your question, no, I don't think Jack would want to see me. Because if I were in his position, I'd stay the hell away from me, too."

 

* * *

 

Eric is in a very particular mood, and there's an attractive man examining produce about fifty yards away. He pegs his odds of getting this stranger back to his apartment at about 100 to 1, but it's worth a shot. Then, the stranger angles into the light, and the coffee in Eric's hand ends up on the ground.

Different from his promotional glamour shots, Jack's hair is greying at the temples, he's wearing thick rimmed glasses, and a cardigan that was stolen right out of Eric's PeePaw's closet. Even at a distance, Eric can tell retirement has been kind. While he may not be as fit as the man that once graced the cover of an ESPN Body Issue, Jack's still so damn handsome that it brings Eric near to tears. This was the future Eric was supposed to have: wandering around an evening market with the man he loved, eating, relaxing, not giving two shits about who might recognize them. A future once so concrete in his mind, now a dream deferred.

Eric waits for someone to join Jack at the stall, a statuesque woman or an equally handsome man, but no one comes. It's just Jack, sneaking extra samples before giving in and purchasing whatever he's just tried.

Eric turns away. Makes it all of three steps before he forces himself back around. He can be brave. He can say hello. After all, they were friends before they were partners. Slipping past some intoxicated tourists, Eric follows Jack downstairs, keeping pace until he realizes Jack is speeding up, and the increase in speed is making his slight limp all the more apparent.

"Jack Zimmermann!" Eric calls out, afraid he's going to lose his chance.

Jack spins, his media smile fading as he recognizes Eric.

“Tell me," Eric swallows, trying to think of a chirp. "Just how much protein do you think is in those crack-berries? Like, zero grams? Possibly a negative number?”

"Bitty?" With no warning, Eric is surrounded by Jack, squished against a thick chest, he scrambles to return the hug. "Eric," Jack breathes, sounding almost happy.

Eric wraps his arms around Jack tightly, breathing deep, allowing himself to imagine the man holding him is the same one that clutched him tight at center ice and declared his love for the whole world to see.

Then, ever so softly, Eric feels the press of lips against his scalp, and something like hope blossoms behind his ribs.

 

 


End file.
